


Dead Doesn’t Mean Gone

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Series: Octoberfest fics [24]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ghost Jaskier | Dandelion, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: People say it’s a ghost story, but it isn’t. It’s a love story.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Octoberfest fics [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956754
Comments: 17
Kudos: 193





	Dead Doesn’t Mean Gone

**Author's Note:**

> For Geraskier hallows prompts: ghosts + magic
> 
> Inspired by The Haunting of Bly Manor

There’s a ghost story people on the Continent like to tell.

It’s about a witcher and the bard who followed him, singing tales of his heroic deeds. Although they bickered often, they still travelled together for decades, the two of them. They became as used to each other’s company as a pair of odd socks, unmatching but part of a set: the witcher and the bard.

Witchers are strong and live for centuries, though, while humans are weak and have only a tentative grasp on life. All it took to sever that grasp was a ragged bunch of bandits, the bard stood in the wrong place at the wrong time, a flash of steel and a dagger embedded in his stomach. The bard bled out on the road as the witcher pressed his hands to the wound, trying to stop the flow of red, but not even the witcher’s strength could match the icy inevitably of death.

Even after that, the witcher saw the bard’s face everywhere. In the wraiths he fought and in glimpses of strangers on the street. Always a twinning of hope and horror: hope that the bard would come back, and horror that he’d come back angry and unforgiving at the witcher’s failure.

The witcher packed away the bard’s books and notes and sent them to Oxenfurt where his poetry could be read and his music could be sung. The bard’s clothes, his finery and silks in all different hues, those the witcher couldn’t bear to sell, so he burned them in a bonfire on Saovine, watching the flames creep up to lick the night sky, whispering a goodbye in words half-spoken.

The bard’s lute, though, the witcher couldn’t consign to the fire. It was a thing of beauty, gifted by an elven king, and it had so many years of love and music poured into it that even by looking at it, one could feel the weight of its history. The witcher strapped it to his saddle and carried it with him, a reminder of the light and life that had once been part of his travels.

He saw the bard more often after that. A shape in the darkness; a flash of colour in the tavern. As he drifted into sleep and as he stumbled into wakefulness he’d hear softly plucked strings, a gentle lullaby to tide him through the night.

Sometimes, when he was camped miles from anyone, all alone in the darkness, the witcher would take the lute from its case and turn it over in his hands. The wood was warm and smooth; its shape was a balm. One night he found himself plucking at the strings, lacking skill or artistry, but the round, single notes were comforting all the same. And as he played he saw a familiar figure across the fire: the bard, in outline, smiling in the blackness.

Each night when he was alone, the witcher would take the lute and play. Not even tunes at first; his fingers too big and clumsy to pick delicately as the bard had done. Just simple notes on open strings. But whenever music sounded from the lute, the spirit of the bard would be nearby.

Over the weeks, and months, and years, the witcher grew in skill. First he played notes, then simple tunes, then whole songs. He’d never be the musician the bard was, but when he touched the lute he felt something moving inside him. Something restless, yearning to be free. Something too big and too full of love to be contained.

He saw the bard more and more clearly, sat by the fire, tapping one foot in time to the music. Never angry, never disappointed despite the witcher’s failure to save him. Always there to calm and to encourage, each time a little closer, and yet always just out of reach like the smoke from the campfire that slipped into the night air.

Until, finally, one night, the bard sat next to him and took the witcher‘s hand, and he felt whole and warm and solid in his grip. The witcher touched the bard’s cheek, his chest, ran his hands over every part of his fine silk clothes and his soft skin and his beautiful face, flushed with health and joy and life.

“How?” the witcher asked, voice trembling.

The bard shrugged his shoulders, posture casual but eyes wide and dark with all he had seen. “We’re more than the sum of our parts. As long as we’re thought of, as long as our memories resonate in the living, then dead doesn’t mean gone.”

People say they still see the witcher and his bard, arriving at the cusp of evening when a village’s need is greatest. They say they still hear music drifting through the night, lifting hearts when everything seems hopeless.

People say it’s a ghost story, but it isn’t. It’s a love story.

Perhaps they’re the same thing.


End file.
